Merope: A prologue to evil
by ariadne29
Summary: A re-imagining of Merope and Tom Riddle Sr.'s story.


I.

_He sleeps soundly, deeply – his eyelids firmly shut; begrudging even the smallest hint of the eyes that so fascinate me. Never have I seen them lighten to a dull gray, or sparkle with specks of amber. Always, he looks at me with that dreamy expression, an enraptured smile on his lips, yet his eyes remain as unfathomably black as his own raven hair. Looking into them feels like coming upon an impenetrable wall and I am forever looking for that crack amidst the barrier, hoping I could catch a glimpse of the man behind those eyes. _

_He tells me I am beautiful, and I wonder at his words. If the potion I made him drink distorts my image to his eyes, so that my lank hair, unsightly face and slouched frame would appear to him as a surreal vision of blonde and blue-eyed beauty, is he lying whenever he tells me I am beautiful? Is it a lie even though he does indeed see me as someone beautiful?_

My father hated his kind; considered them nothing better than the filth that clings to the walls of the ancient hovel. We were above them – even if the dilapidated house was worse than any I have ever seen in the village, even if he showers me with curses each mealtime for serving the same measly food every single day. He was above them and they were not fit even to grovel upon the ground he trod on. We are above anyone in fact, muggle or warlock, for we are the descendants of the greatest and most powerful wizard that ever lived: Salazar Slytherin. We are his pure-blooded heirs. Heirs to what? I would wonder bitterly, whenever I look at the grimy windows, the empty cupboards and the gray rags that were my clothes.

Still, I fell for him; perhaps because, to my father's eyes, I was only slightly better than him. A disgusting squib, he would call me, and I could almost laugh at the irony. A descendant of the great and mighty Slytherin, with not a drop of muggle blood coursing through my veins, yet incapable of executing even the simplest summoning spell. I would have been as despicable as any muggle had I not been worthy of wearing Slytherin's locket which constantly dangles from the golden cord around my neck (a gift from my long-dead mother; probably a last desperate act to prevent father from eventually killing me and remind him every now and then that I was, after all, still his pure-blooded daughter) I was the worm wriggling among the dirt that was the muggles. And yet, even father cannot deny that I was a very efficient and helpful worm. I made sure – to the best of my abilities and in my own, muggle-like ways – that he and my brother do not starve or freeze to death or buried alive in dirt.

I fell in love with the muggle as he rode past atop his chestnut horse towards his mansion; he spotted me peering behind the bushes and trees which hid our decaying house from plain view of passing muggles. He looked at me and it was a look far different from Morfin's mad, maniacal stares and father's appalled scowls. It was a look of pity. He pitied me. I cherished that pitying glance more than anything that was ever given to me for back then, pity was the closest thing to love that I will ever gain from him – from anyone, in fact.

But then I _made_ him love me. I found a way to make him fall in love with me every day.

One day I found out that the gruel I prepared for breakfast, which I meticulously divided and poured into three bowls, was all mine to eat now. They were gone, carted off by Aurors to be imprisoned in Azkaban. A most horrible place, so I've heard. Nobody goes out of it the same, they say, some even go mad. Father and Morfin were already mad anyway, I thought, and I doubt even Azkaban would make them worse than they already were. Still, I did not wait around to prove myself wrong.

_Steam was gently rising out of the cauldron, spiraling and swirling in a very un-smoke-like way before completely dispersing. I breathe in the familiar, delicious smells and let it pervade all my senses as it pervaded the small, stuffy room. It is at the same time, the sweet scent of apples, the heady aroma of wine, and the intoxicating, exhilarating fragrance of Tom. I wonder what the potion smelt like to Tom. Does he smell those smells in me whenever he drinks it? How did I smell to him before he first tasted the potion, on that unforgettable day beneath the apple tree in Little Hangleton?_

I remember spending days in our dingy kitchen, bending over the moss-covered cauldron, my eyes stinging and watering from the fumes as I tried to perfect the complicated potion that would help take me as far away as possible from the wretched house and from father. I pored over that one particular page of the coverless and tattered book of potions and antidotes that I unearthed under piles of rubbish and debris in the basement, analyzed each word, letter and symbol that was written across its yellowed, brittle pages. I gathered all the ingredients required; some I had to steal from the village marketplace, others I obtained deep within the forest and had to be collected in the middle of the night, some quite rare that I knew I couldn't afford too many mistakes.

Then, I began learning the spells needed to complete the potion. Father would never have believed it, but his squib daughter DID succeed in doing spells. I _made_ myself learn them, uttering again and again the incantations, sometimes in our own serpent-like language. When, finally, I smelled the most wonderful aroma I had ever inhaled, I smiled at my distorted reflection on the dusty kitchen window.

He had looked quite dapper in his dark coat. His black hair was swept back to his nape in a dashing way, emphasizing his finely-chiseled features and paleness even more. With a sudden burst of fury, I wanted to strangle my brother for even daring to hex him and destroying such perfection by giving him hives. Then, I remembered that he was being punished for the very cruelty he did to Tom and I couldn't help but be gleeful. How outraged Morfin would surely be when he finds out what I was about to do!

Tom led his chestnut in a trot towards the big mansion, not hurrying, but not lingering either. He cast wary glances to his surroundings; he knew that the tramp and his demented son lived nearby and although the people who apprehended my brother probably erased Tom's memory of Mofin's attack on him, his instincts must have told him that he shouldn't let his guard down when passing through that small strip of road.

I was hiding behind a tree on the edge of the small road, just a few feet ahead of the house. I had seen Tom ride out earlier that day, perhaps to go downtown or visit his sweetheart. I was relieved and extremely pleased when, towards noon I spotted him riding back quite alone.

Everything was ready. The adder that Morfin was torturing just a few weeks ago was coiled beside my feet, patiently waiting for my command.

'_Go'_ I told her, and obediently, she slithered across the road.

Tom's horse reared back suddenly, jolting its master. 'Easy there, easy,' he said to it soothingly, trying to calm the frightened beast and not noticing the dirt colored serpent already crawling into safety and away from the horse's heavy hooves stomping in fear and, most probably, pain.

Tom was thrown out of his saddle as his horse continued its frenzied bucking. The animal wobbled away from him and was able to walk unsteadily for a few feet before finally crumbling to its knees. I saw him hurry towards his horse and crouched down beside it.

"It's dead." Tom Riddle looked around, startled. His surprise turned to suspicion when he saw who it was who talked. "Your horse," I said, "it is dead. The snake bit him." A frown drew a crease upon his perfect forehead as he looked back to his horse which was now lying on the ground, unmoving. Blood was trickling from its left front leg, oozing out from two small, adjacent wounds that could only be made by a snake's fangs. The snake was lying in the grass, conspicuously brown against the green. Tom saw her there, her head still held gracefully aloft as if preparing to sink her long fangs to anyone who dared approach. So far, still obeying my orders. A look came across Tom's face: hatred? Fury mixed with a tinge of fear? He picked up small stones on the ground and started throwing them at the adder.

"Stop." He turned and looked at the hand restraining him. I tightened my grip on his elbows. "You might provoke her even more. It is no use, your horse is dead." I lowered my gaze when I felt him scrutinizing my face. I did not want to look at his eyes. Not yet. "You will have to walk home. Would you like to have a drink of water before you go?" I saw him hesitate; it was almost noon and the sun was unusually hot – the last days of summer was still trying to make itself felt though the leaves were by now beginning to turn brown. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. Yet he was uncertain whether he could enter our house and get out of it alive. "They aren't home," I said hastily, "my father and brother. They are away and I'm – alone." It wasn't working. I had to switch to another plan. "Never mind. I will get the water myself. You should wait by that tree, it is cooler by the shade." I crossed the road and walked back to the house, not daring to look back until I was hidden behind a tree.

I was ready for this. Father's hip flask hung from a low-lying branch on the very tree I was hiding behind. I was ready to run after him and offer the flask, in case he decided it wasn't worth waiting around such a dismal place for a drink of water. Still, I was shaking when I peered from behind the tree. He appeared quite bemused, looking towards where he saw me disappear – expecting. He was expecting _me_. My feeling of elation grew; I wanted to sing (if I could, I probably would have). I waited on tenterhooks for a few agonizing minutes before unhooking the flask against the branch and hurried towards him. He was eating an apple; I hadn't noticed until then that the tree was actually bearing fruit. The branches were dipped low, heavy with late-blooming, red apples.

There, under the shade of the apple tree, I made Tom Riddle fall in love with me for the first time. I went home that day with the sweet flavor of apples on my mouth, the taste lingering deliciously on my tongue. I did not stay at home for much longer.

okay so i'm kinda new to fanfiction and this is me trying to get my feet wet... it's more of a backstory really, and the twist comes into the last part i think so...i hope someone would review... i'd very much appreciate it...;)


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